


Another Path Travelled

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (or at least he tries), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, Denial of Feelings, Dom Harold Finch, Dom/sub Undertones, Friends With Benefits, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Praise Kink, Slice of Life, Sub John Reese, but with feelings of course, dark!Finch, not quite mob boss Finch but it gives the right feeling, well dark-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: “What do you need me to do?” his partner asks with the hint of weariness his voice always carries on days Harold has asked him to dispose of someone. Weariness, and a hint of accomplishment.(Or: An afternoon for a slightly darker version of Harold and John.)





	Another Path Travelled

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Tee for letting me whine about this and test reading and reassuring me and helping me pick a title and for being lovely and amazing and just generally for existing ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
> 
> Still not entirely happy with this fic, but it's... alright, I suppose.

The dual sound of the gunshot – thin and distorted through the speaker of his phone and slightly clearer if still rather quiet through his earpiece – rings hollow over the sound of the waves rushing to shore and the cries of the seagulls overhead. On the screen, live footage from the webcam of the computer on the desk, Officer Patrick Simmons’ head snaps back as the bullet tears through it. It leaves a spray blood on the beige wall behind him, grainy and almost colourless. It’s a rather cheap webcam. Then there is movement on the edge of the screen, a dark figure stepping forward with long, confident strides, hands nearly white with the latex gloves covering them, holstering the gun and quickly, efficiently digging the slug out of the drywall. With another two steps, the figure is gone, beyond the view of the webcam.

Harold pockets his phone, as much as he’d prefer to switch to the camera in the hallway, to keep watching the elegant, efficient movements of his asset that don’t betray the bullet graze he knows he will find across his ribs later. Instead, he looks out onto the sea, gunmetal grey due to the cloud cover. The wind is getting harsher now, whipping the waves higher. It tugs at his coat and hat and scarf, the cold on the verge of uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Mr Reese.” he says curtly, not waiting for an answer before tapping the earpiece, cutting off the connection. He turns to the man next to him. “Now that this unpleasantness is concluded...”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The smile Carl Elias gives him is perfectly polite, with a hint of something genuinely pleased, and he quickly lifts his briefcase, balancing it on the handrail lining the edge of the Coney Island Boardwalk. Flicks open the metal latches with a sharp click.

The manilla folder he pulls out and hands over is thinner than Harold hoped for but no more so than he expected. Still, his moment displeasure must have briefly shown, since Elias speaks again after just a few seconds, voice level and mild.

“The government seems to have a rather vested interest in keeping any and all information, on Denton Weeks confidential. I have to say, I’m rather impressed with the lengths they’ve gone to to keep even his indiscretions under wraps.”

Harold takes a moment to skim through the contents before tucking the folder into his own briefcase. “Thank you, this should be quite sufficient. And I do hope you consider your effort fully compensated for? After all, your discontent with HR should be quite clear now, and I will keep you apprised to the investigation as much as I am able to, as per our agreement.”

Elias gives him a knowing look when he deliberately doesn’t mention his partner’s injury, though he is obviously aware that it irks Harold. Irks him more than he is strictly comfortable with.

“And I will get back to you should I happen to come across any further information.” Quid pro quo, something usually worthy of another favour in recompense for John’s injury. His sense of honour and the sense of mutual respect is something that Harold highly values about Elias. “Though I have to say, tangling with the APNSA… You do know how to keep life interesting, Harold.”

There is a question hidden in this and Harold hesitates only for a moment, but their business association has been rather beneficial so far and he knows how to work with a man like Elias. They both know better than to cross one another. “They took something of mine.”

“And you intend to take it back?”

He thinks of lines of code, carefully considered and changed over and over again, corrected and adjusted to satisfaction, to perfection. Thinks of Nathan’s smile and the shrapnel in his own hip and John Reese, drunk and unmoored and broken. Knows they have no right to possess what they misuse. “Something like that.”

He receives another knowing look. “Revenge is a double-edged sword, and all the sharper the more personal is it.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Harold answers drily, glances out across Brighton Beach and then moves to turn, telling himself that it is merely the cold that makes him miss the library. His phone seems to burn in his pocket and he is acutely aware of the earpiece he still wears, aware of the silence of the severed connection.

“Speaking of this.” Elias halts him and waits to continue until Harold has turned back. “A friend told me that Detective Carter has taken to consider Gianni Moretti’s protection her personal responsibility.”

“Detective Carter is still off limits.” Harold quickly reminds him. _Some people the world can’t afford to lose_ , John had said, and Harold is inclined to agree with him in this. Even if he weren’t, a part of him would want to indulge his partner anyway, snare him tighter than he already has with lies of omission and the promise of honesty and a purpose that isn’t quite a righteous as he had presented it to be.

“Of course. But you have people in her precinct.”

“I suppose arrangements could be made that she is kept busy elsewhere for a while. For a price.”

Elias nods, expectantly, and Harold’s eyes flicker to his own briefcase, to the file he received, thinner than he’d hoped for.

“Special Counsel. I don’t have a name, but he works in connection with Denton Weeks and a woman named Alicia Corwin who formerly worked for the APNSA as well.”

“Formerly?”

“She died due to a car bomb in 2010, though that incident will not be relevant.” Harold fights not to swallow thickly, suppressing the memories of her panicked voice and the guilt and doubts they bring.

“I’ll see what I can do. As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Harold. Give John my best.” Elias says, looking out to the sea for another moment before he turns, Harold following suit a moment later, heading in the opposite direction. Their footfalls on the Boardwalk sound hollow accompanied by the screaming of the seagulls and the rushing of the ocean and soon enough, Harold sinks into the backseat of a car, the driver of the day knowing the destination and wordlessly pulling out onto the road.

He considers opening the briefcase and studying the contents of the folder more thoroughly, but his hand finds his phone without his permission, the other already tapping the earpiece and almost instantly, John’s low voice fills his ear.

“Miss me, Finch?”

There is no reason to dignify the teasing with a response, not when he feels his lips quirk upwards into a little smile that won’t let itself be suppressed.

“I’m on my way back to the library and I expect to see you there in half an hour.”

The screen of his phone now shows the footage of a traffic camera, John making his way through a crowd and even with how pixelated the video is, Harold recognises the careful way John holds himself, taking more care than usual to avoid people bumping into him so they might not jostle the injury Harold knows he is hiding. Stubborn and with so little care for himself as usual. He wishes that thought would make him feel anything other than this mixture of concern and fondness.

“What do you need me to do?” his partner asks with the hint of weariness his voice always carries on days Harold has asked him to dispose of someone. Weariness, and a hint of accomplishment because he trusts Harold to never aim him at an innocent target, a trust that makes Harold’s fond smile grow against his will and he knows that at least this is a trust he will never break.

“Nothing. In fact, I believe there is something I ought to do for you.”

The John on the surveillance footage touches his side unconsciously and when he answers, Harold can hear his smile in his voice. “Be right there.”

The phone remains in his hand and the folder remains in his briefcase for the rest of the drive, and even though they have fallen silent, he doesn’t sever the connection this time.

There is no denying that he is getting too attached and for the fraction of a moment, he almost misses the simplicity of working with people like Mr Dillinger. People he reeled in with money instead of words, whose allegiance could simply be bought, instead of having to ensnare with promises of a better world, of a purpose and that the institutions that had wronged them would never do so with others again. Earning true loyalty along the way, in a way he wishes he could claim to be accidental and not deliberately, carefully calculated.

A good man. Not to mention his efficiency in the field and his dedication to his work. The CIA lost a true asset the day they foolishly decided to retire John Reese and Harold cannot help but be glad for their oversight, even if whatever may be left of his heart these days has begun to resent the state it put him in, in which Harold found him, to regret his own actions that day. He had felt rather fortunate knowing how vulnerable John was to his half-truths and promises in that moment.

Perhaps that remorse carries the responsibility for his irritation whenever he sees him hurt. It certainly is a better excuse than any other explanation for the lump of worry he feels in his throat even now, for the low-grade panic living in his chest now intrinsically associated with John being injured and out of his sight, one that even the footage he watches him make his way to the library on does little to alleviate, even though there is a distracting amount of pleasure in watching his fluid, elegant movements and the way the bespoke suit hugs his lean figure.

He remembers the too many knowing looks exchanged between Elias and Anthony Marconi when he used to have John accompany him – the very reason he no longer does so – and tries to banish all thoughts of his partner.

The car pulls up to the sidewalk a block’s distance from the library and Harold wires the payment to the car service, wordlessly climbing outside. His neck feels stiff from the shore’s cold wind despite the scarf and a sharp squall nearly has him wince. He hurries along and by the time he finally steps into the building’s shelter, John is still a few minutes away, so he takes his time climbing the stairs, finally turning off the surveillance footage and pocketing his phone. Hangs up his coat, scarf and hat and resists the temptation to access the footage again via his computer.

Finally, he opens the briefcase and pulls out the folder, opening it, sorting through pages of information and printed photos. The getaway lodge Weeks shares with his mistress seems promising and he puts it up on the glass board containing his collected information on the officials behind project Northern Lights in a prominent position. The side note regarding a rogue hacker – more rumour than anything, but it is better to be safe than sorry and after all only the paranoid survive – goes with it.

He is drawing connections between these and other information on the board when familiar footsteps echo through the hallway and this time, he wins the fight against the smile tugging at his lips, though this obviously doesn’t bother John the least.

“Excellent work today, Mr Reese.” He ignores the warmth behind his own ribs when John seems to glow with pleasure at the praise and pretends he doesn’t miss the look as it fades when John catches sight of the addition on the glass board.

“That my next target?” John asks, again with a hint of weariness.

“No, merely another piece of the puzzle for the moment, nothing you need concern yourself with. Now, if you’d please pull up a chair let me have a look at that graze.”

Just like that, his partner’s expression lights up once more, now into a teasing grin and when he speaks again, he is close enough that Harold can feel his warm breath. “Bossy, Harold. I like it.”

He suppresses the urge to side-eye him. “I am quite aware. Please sit down and take off your jacket and shirt. And if you do so immediately and without complaint, I may just choose to reward you.”

“I’m fine.” John insists predictably, but he does take off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt, a little slower than necessary but Harold decides not to mention it as he enjoys the view, even if he is fairly certain that this is precisely the reason for John doing so.

Tearing his eyes away from the expanse of slightly tanned, scarred skin and lean muscle on perfect, tantalising display even with the blood clinging to his side, he retrieves the first aid kit, sitting down in his own chair opposite of John. His partner doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t so much as flinch when Harold begins to clean the graze Officer Simmons gave him trying futilely to save his own life and he is taken aback by a sudden wave of admiration and desire for the man before him. Glancing upwards at the small, heated grin on John’s face, he knows it wasn’t as subtle as he hoped it might have been. He makes himself give the other a stern look, only to receive a faux-innocent one in return.

The bloodied gauze he cleaned the wound with is dropped into the paper bin beside his desk and he grabs the suture kit. John still doesn’t flinch when he sinks the needle into his skin, when the smallest drop of blood wells up or when he pulls the thread through, knotting it tight. Three more stitches, neat and even despite the distraction of feeling John’s gaze on him like a physical weight – filled with desire and so much fondness that Harold doesn’t deserve and wishes wasn’t there, that he selfishly cannot bear the thought of losing, even as he cannot face the way it makes the tattered, hardened remains of his heart sing. He knows that when John looks at him, he sees a good man, sees a lie that Harold expertly crafted just for him.

His heart clenches but his hands are steady when he finally covers the neatly stitched wound with a bandage and pretends his hands don’t linger, pretends he doesn’t notice how John leans into the touch when he makes sure it sticks securely to his skin. Just like he pretends he isn’t aware of the warmth and longing in John’s eyes as he watches him put the med kit away.

When he returns to his office chair, half-intent on spending what remains of the day trying to find more information on Denton Weeks, he is unsurprised to find John standing smoothly and stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare torso.

“See? Did what you asked, and no complaints.” John teases, playful, flirtatious, expectant.

There isn’t nearly as much sarcasm in Harold’s answer as he wishes there were. “Yes, well done, Mr Reese.”

It’s a bad idea, Harold is all too acutely aware of that. This unnamed thing between them, the unexpected – and unexpectedly welcome – physical relationship that they’d somehow fallen into when Harold had been naive enough to believe he could keep his emotional distance to this man, this is the very last thing he needs, not when even the thought of giving it up has already become his anathema. Not when something warm and sickeningly sweet floods him as John once again basks in the simplest praise, when his hands itch to reach out to touch and hold when John’s eyes immediately darken.

He ought to send John home and focus on his mission, _their_ mission considering how deeply and irrevocably he has pulled John into it. He turns his chair around to face him, allowing himself to fully appreciate the sight.

“But I believe you are still somewhat overdressed.”

John’s grin is warm and joyful and a little triumphant and seems to light up the entire room as he hastes to toe his shoes off and Harold lets him get as far as discarding his socks before admonishing “A little slower, if you’d please.”

Instantly, John’s every move becomes languid and seductive and Harold leans back, giving up on any pretence that he ever anticipated the day to end in any other way than this, any delusion of there ever having been any chance of him sending John away. In another life, he might have been a better person, might have considered the imbalance of power between them and never begun _this_ , might have regained his senses at some point, but he knows with agonising clarity that in this one, he is too far gone.

“Very good.” he says, watching the shadows play over John’s throat as he swallows, watching even more heat seep into those grey-blue eyes. Watching the black leather belt fall to the floor and the black, tailored slacks reveal more and more of John’s long, lean legs.

And then “Come here.” with a hint of steel in his voice that pulls a soft groan from John, who takes the last step, closing the distance, then elegantly sinks to his knees in front of him. Looking up at him with desire and devotion and a tender longing that Harold refuses to think of as _love_ because then he’d be truly lost and already each beat of his atrophied heart sends sweet agony through him.

Like so many times before – he tells himself that this is the last time, that after today he will distance himself so John will once again be nothing more than the weapon others created and discarded and he perfected for his own use, the very same thing he tells himself every single time – John’s long-fingered hands find his belt buckle, open it, and he feels more than hears the zipper being pulled open.

For a moment, his control snaps and he buries his hand in John’s sleek, silky hair, running his fingers through it, tenderly caressing the side of his face. “You are magnificent.” slips out in a low whisper, too soft, too honest, and worst of all he cannot even regret it when John _smiles_. Smiles at him with a dazed sort of happiness and presses a kiss to the inside of Harold’s wrist, soft and undeniably loving. And then John moves in, leaving him unable to process anything beyond silky heat and bittersweet pleasure, and he doesn’t know if what escapes him is a gasp or a sob.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it, and that you might leave me a comment? Pretty please? :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Toll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102943) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida)




End file.
